


Coulson's Dog: Or Why Clint dosen't like Amsterdam that much anymore.

by thejademare



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Agent Jimmy Woo, Clint Needs a Hug, Clint is not the emotionally constipated one!, Clint whump, F/M, Hurt Clint, Hurt Phil, I am a bad person on the inside, It's Phil, Jasper Sitwell is Not Hydra, Jasper is not taking any of your shit today Phil, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Phil Coulson has learned the tradition of being a Lying Liar Who Lies Like A Very Expensive Rug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 20:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8592349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejademare/pseuds/thejademare
Summary: Everyone has a different story of how Clint got to be called Coulson's dog. Only one of them is true, and only a few people know it. Jasper happens to be one. Why? He was there, at the end. Or was it the beginning?  Before Natasha, before they were a couple.





	1. At the beginning, there weren't sparks

Clint is shivering like mad by the time they find Jasper, wrapped in every spare thing he could glean from the safehouse. By time they find him, he's half way gone, everything in a torrid, molasses thick daze. They back-board him, just to be on the safe side. His ribs protest every moment they move him, and they must realize that's what he's so bothered by, because when they're on the jet, there's morphine, and warming blankets, and then everything is nice, and floaty for a good long while. 

He dozes for a long time, sometimes dreaming of a beautiful woman, haloed in fire, other times a calm man, with a kind face. He can feel their hands on his, hear that they're talking to him, but he's too far gone to really make out the words. Through it all, he rasps for breath, a bubbling caludren having taken up residence in his lungs. 

After what feels like what must be an age, he manages to pry his eyes open, and finds Jasper and Natasha sitting on either side of him, talking in hushed tones over his prone form. Before he can make a sound, the door opens, and Phil steps in, frowning slightly at Jasper. “Shouldn't you still be in bed?” 

Jasper sighs loudly, rolling his eyes. “Thanks for the concern, but I'm just fine Cheese.” He falls silent, and Clint realizes that his eyes are closed again. When the hell did that happen? “He's still...?” The words fall off, and he can hear Jasper and Natasha sigh in tandem. 

“Yes.” Natasha answers, and suddenly her hand is stroking his hair, a small smile in her voice. “Fever's dropped though. But his lungs are still pretty bad off.” She falls silent again, her hand leaving his head, and the rustle of papers can be heard. 

He's very sick, then. That would explain the tightness in his lungs, and the oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. He should reassure them that he's going to be just fine, that this isn't going to take him out, not one bit. That means opening his eyes again though...Futz. 

He manages it, and must make some sort of sound, because they're all clustered around him in a heartbeat, grinning like loons. “M'f'ne.” He manages, before everything starts to fade around him, and he's dragged back into velveteen darkness. 

 

Natasha sits back, smiling gently, her hand returning to stroke Clint's hair as he sleeps. “I know you will be, yastreb. But you need rest, first.” 

Phil's frown deepens, and he takes a step closer. “I...I didn't know he was this sick. If I'd have know, I'd have come sooner.” He's the head of SHIELD now, he doesn't exactly get to take breaks. Not that he got to take them all that often before the whole spear to the chest thing anyway, but still...

He shakes his head, taking a seat by Clint's hip, one hand resting on the mound of blankets for a moment. “Jasper, you played your part perfectly, and I can't thank you enough for your loyalty and bravery.” The room is suddenly cramped, and there's not enough air. “I'll see if I can send Bobbi or Jemma down in a while, if there's anything they can do to help him.” 

Jasper's eyes narrow, and he nods, raising an eyebrow. “You know he doesn't think it's your fault, right Phil? Hell, he still doesn't even know you're alive. Which is an asshole thing to do.” He falls silent, staring straight at Phil's eyes, not giving an inch. 

Phil meets his gaze for a moment, but has to look down soon. “I...It was for his own good.” With that, he turns, nodding to Natasha before stepping out the door. 

“The nerve of him...” Jasper mutters, frowning as they listen to Phil's retreating footsteps. “He has May on a gag order...I...Damnit. Fury did too, but it's still not fair.” He slumps in his chair, shivers running through him. He probably should still be in bed, hypothermia isn't something to fuck around with, but Clint's so sick because of him, and he's not going to let him be alone at the moment. 

“Do you know the reason they called him Coulson's dog?” Jasper starts, staring at the ground. “It was before you were around, I dunno if he ever told you...” 

“No. I don't think it's something he really likes talking about that much.” Natasha raises an eyebrow, her hand stilling in Clint's hair for a moment, at the mention of the nickname before starting again. “I'm sure he'll tell me when he's ready.” She wants to know, but respects him, and his privacy. Heaven knows he's had chances to pry into her past, and hadn't. She'll afford him the same courtesy now.

Jasper smiles, shaking his head. “Somehow, I get the impression he wouldn't mind me telling you. If anything, hopefully it'll give you some insight as to why I'm so very pissed off at our...esteemed leader, as it were.” 

Oh. Well that's different then. She nods, sitting forward in her chair. “Do tell.” 

Jasper nods, spacing out at the wall for a few minutes, before turning to face her. 

“Starts in Amsterdam, actually...” 

 

___________________________________________________________________________________

Amsterdam, Holland  
September 18, 1995  
10:47, local time

“Is it so hard to find normal futzing bicycles here? Ya couldn'ta found some mountain bikes or somethin'?” Clint groused, wobbling so much he nearly fell as he tried to keep up with Phil. “These things suck. And it's only the tourists on these kinds, the locals all ride normal lookin' ones.” 

“Deal with it, Barton. They really aren't that hard to ride. And do we really look like locals, anyway?” Phil raised an eyebrow, frowning. “Your German could use some work, as well as your French.” 

Clint growled, flipping him off as he tried to get the hang of riding the bike. After a few turns around the bike trail, he'd mastered it, the closely bent handlebars no longer proving such a problem. Catching up to Phil, and breezing past him, he waved, grinning as he twisted himself around. “Now can we get normal people bikes?” He called back in German, smirking at Phil. 

“Showoff.” Phil muttered, catching up. “And I suppose if you think it would help us blend in better...” 

“You just like that you got the hang of that one first.” Clint shot back, still in German. 

 

They made their way around the park a few more times, Clint eventually conceding that maybe the bikes weren't all that bad, but he still wanted a mountain bike. Phil finally relented, letting him trade in for one. 

All in all, the day had been rather uneventful. When darkness fell, however, that was to change.  
__________________________________________________________________________________  
Amsterdam, Holland  
September 19, 1995  
0:46, local time

Clint shivered in the stiff breeze, hidden atop a high building, bow by his side, sniper rifle secured with a silencer and ready to go. "In position, Overwatch. Ready when you are." He murmured, the mike taped to his throat picking up on any vibrations his voice made. 

"Understood, Hawk. Wait for target confirmation."

"Sir, Yess--" He broke off, frowning. "Overwatch. Abort. Repeat, Abort mission. Fuckton of hostiles, switching to bow." 

"Can you still make the shot, Hawkeye?" Phil asked, frowning as he heard Clint's warning, and saw the several black SUV's that pulled up around the area where the command center was. 

"Yes, but get outta there, Sir." 

"Take the shot, Hawkeye. I can handle myself." 

Grumbling under his breath, Clint did as he was told, firing an arrow straight into the ear of his target, the man dropping like a stone, even as the arrow shaft started to dissolve. 

The death of their leader sent the goons into a frenzy, sprinting for the command center, guns drawn. 

Picking off as many as he could from the roof, he finally had to admit defeat when a goon managed to sneak up behind him, slamming him down onto the roof, knocking him out. As the world faded to nothing, he could make out the faint sounds of gunfire from below, the five hostiles he hadn't managed to finish off having broken into the command center.


	2. But the moment after that. There were sparks there.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there is an argument, Clint is a gump, and Phil has some good ideas.

Time passed, how long he wasn't sure. It may have been minutes, it may have been hours. He had a few vague memories of a car, being dragged in front of a man, the cold bite of stone digging into his side. Clint groaned, sitting up, his stomach churning angrily in his belly. Looking around, he found the room's only adornment, an orange bucket. Slowly, with careful and deliberate motions, he made his way to the corner, blinking hard at the occasional double vision. Fucking concussions. 

Just as he made it to the bucket, his stomach heaved, and he lost what little had been in him. Gagging, he leaned over the bucket, eyes shut tight against the rush of tears the action brought. Feeling another wave of nausea building, he sank to his knees in preparation. He'd always been a sympathetic puker, and his own vomit was no exception. 

Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he groaned, pushing the bucket away from him. Fuck, that never felt better, and always fucking sucked, each and every goddamn time. Easing himself up, he took stock of himself. Most everything in working order, save for the brain bruise, and the absolutely evil headache he'd have in a few minutes. Ah yes, there were the beginnings of it. Looking around, he saw his cell had bars, and a rather primitive looking lock. So far, so good. . .

The only problem was, he didn't have a damn thing to leverage his way out. Or perhaps he did. But better to wait, and to see what was going on, rather then to bust out suddenly. Looking around, he spotted the tell-tail sign of a fish-eye camera lens on the wall. So, they'd spring for C.C.T.V. and not for actually secure cells? Amateurs. 

Sitting back against one of the walls, he waited. And waited, and waited, and waited. After what felt like forever, and was probably only a very short time later, (He never had been good at the 'hurry up and wait part of spy work, always needing a book, or something to occupy his hands during the down time, or else he'd start to get testy) Goon the first came down, closely followed by Goon the second. Between them, they carried Coulson, hanging limp in their arms. 

Panic began to swirl in the back of his mind for a hot second, before he pushed it away. Coulson was a good handler, listened (for the most part) to him, and took what he thought into account. Not many did. 

“Awake? Good. Take your handler. Maybe next time, he listen to you, yes?” Goon the first snorted, dropping Coulson's feet to the floor to unlock the door, Goon the second dragging him into the cell, setting his arms down, making sure not to crack his head too hard on the floor, before turning away. The moment Goon the second was out, Goon the first locked the door again, turning to head back upstairs. 

Clint waited to the count of eight after their steps were gone, bending over Coulson, making sure that his body blocked the camera's sight line. “Sir? You awake?” 

“Sitrep, agent.” Coulson hissed, eyes still closed. 

“Good one, Sir. Maybe next time, listen?” 

“I said, Sitrep Hawkeye.” Coulson frowned, cracking one eye open to look at Clint. 

Sighing, he sat back, shaking his head. “M'fine. Light concussion. Hurts when I move too fast, m'fine otherwise.” 

Phil frowned deeper, raising an eyebrow. “You just assured me you were fine twice. Usually with you, that means the opposite. Full sitrep, and don't make me ask again.” 

“I. Am. Fine.” Clint grumbled, bullheaded stubborn streak right in place. 

“I'm not going to fight you on this, because it's frankly a waste of time. Any ideas on getting out of here?” Coulson asked, still on the floor. 

“Not really. Half barrel hinges, but we've got nothing besides that bucket to actually leverage it up. Unless you've managed to get a screwdriver in shoes or something, I don't think we're gonna be able to really do much until we can get one of the guards. What about you, are you alright?” 

“I'm fine, I played dead with them early on. From what I can tell, they are rather fragmented over what's going on, now that their boss is gone. Good shot, Barton.” he nodded, slowly pushing himself up, Clint leaning forward to help. “For now, lets go with I'm still a new handler, and you don't know what to do, until we can think of something better.” 

“Sounds like a plan to me, Sir.” Clint nodded, shoulders drooping. At least time wouldn't go so slowly now with someone else here to talk to. He'd been starting to debate the merits of pissing off the guards before they'd arrived with Coulson. 

Leaning his head against the wall, he turned, looking at his handler from the side. So far as he could tell, he was alright. Not too much of a scratch from being man-handled down the stairs, and dropped on the rough floor. Not that he'd be able to tell that much aside from looking at his hands, anyway. 

“Think we should fake a fight? They might come down here quicker, if they think we're divided.” Clint asked after a time, an eyebrow raised in thought. 

“That's not a bad idea, actually. Try and see if we can bait them into telling us something. I'm willing to bet they're picking an impromptu leader at the moment, or whoever is smart enough has seized power. From what we saw on surveillance they weren't exactly screaming with honor among thieves, and all that.” 

Standing up, he frowned, looking around. “What'da ya mean, we should tell them everything! That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard ya say.” Clint huffed, his voice raised. 

Taking his queue from Clint, Phil stood too, arms crossed. “At least that way they won't torture us. Unless that's something you want, of course. Your files did say you were argumentative, and didn't work well with others.” 

Growling, Clint took a step forward, throwing his hands in the air. “Why the fuck should I be surprised. You're a coward, just like I heard you were. Fine, if that's the way you feel about, I don't think I want any part'a you. Asshole.”


End file.
